


Dog Lover

by violetsandroses



Series: Fable [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Fable 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24518443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetsandroses/pseuds/violetsandroses
Summary: Connor is saved after that fateful night, but what will he do without his brother?
Relationships: Amanda & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Cole Anderson & Connor, Cole Anderson & Hank Anderson, Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson/Connor, Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Series: Fable [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740706
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Dog Lover

**Author's Note:**

> Production of this installment was waylaid for two weeks by the destruction of my laptop, may it rest in peace, and for that I apologize. But we're back in business, baby! All aboard the wacky Crossover AU train once again.
> 
> Also, I would like to thank the wonderful HankCon fic [This Ache Called Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17608457) for reminding me that Connor's name does, indeed, mean "lover of hounds" when I was waffling between Dog Lover and Dumpling for the title of this story. It's a great work, so go check it out if you're interested!

Connor was the older brother.

He had to protect Nines.

* * *

The ground was sticky and wet. An uncomfortable warmth slowly spread across his back. His vision flashed intermittently. Sounds started to muddle. He could hear someone shouting, but their voice was far off and distorted. His consciousness lapsed in and out. He couldn’t move his head. Everything was upside-down.

Connor’s vacant stare was fixed on the stained glass window. For a few brief seconds, his vision refocused, his body fighting valiantly to push past the damage sustained to it. Nines came into view. He was backing up to the window with a terrified expression.

A diluted _bang_ resounded, and Nines was shot through the window, shattering the beautiful glass, fear in his eyes and a blooming hole in his chest. It felt like forever, that he hung there in that instant, so close and yet Connor still powerless to save him, and at the same time Connor hadn’t even blinked before his baby brother had plummeted off the side of the tower.

Tears pooled at the top of Connor’s eyelids, and his consciousness finally succumbed.

* * *

Connor’s awareness faded in and out. The only constant was the pain in his side.

It was dark, and he felt hemmed in, like something was pressing at him from all sides. The first few times he stirred his limbs were limp and dangling, but later he’d resurface to a full body jarring that jostled his wound before the pain and the cold pulled him down again.

It felt like that went on for a long time, too long. Connor wanted it to be over. An eternity might’ve passed by the time Connor woke to the horrid feeling of slamming into the ground, his shoulder and hip aching agonizingly, only for the sudden shock of pain to knock him out once again.

He didn’t really surface again, after that. He’d come close; acknowledge a strange noise or stir at the threads of a distant conversation, but it wasn’t enough.

He sunk back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Hank crept quickly into the alleyway, eager to avoid detection but reasonably certain that at this time of night any patrons of The Cow & Corset would be too smashed to notice him. He chanced a brief glance around to make sure he was truly alone before he set about his task with vigor, a mischievous smile on his face, giddy at the prospect of what he might find.

A few months ago Hank and his friends had been messing around in this very alleyway when they discovered something absolutely momentous: most of the ground was often littered with trash that wouldn’t be cleaned until the next morning, things that people tossed as they headed home for the night, but if you dug around a bit, you might get lucky and find a half-full or even an unopened bottle of the local booze.

Hank had already sampled some Bowerstone Brown Beer, a little Box Wine, and a leftover Oakfield Sour the last few times he’d managed to find something. The Oakfield Sour was truly rancid, but the sweet satisfaction of getting one over on the stern barman who refused to slip him and his friends anything while they were still underage was overpoweringly potent, and he’d settle for a whole crate of the stuff without complaint if the opportunity arose.

He was rifling through the trash pile near the mouth of the alley, where the good stuff was most often hidden if it was ever to be found, when he heard a strange high-pitched noise from somewhere further down the way. Hank startled, guilt sneaking in for the split second he thought he might be caught, but then he jerked his head to the right and didn’t see anyone there.

The sound had come from a puppy, small and pathetic, whimpering as it nosed at a long bundle of thick fabric tossed against the side of the alley. It licked at the bundle, completely despondent, like it was trying to encourage some sort of reaction.

Inexplicably, Hank was struck with the _very_ strong instinct not to get involved, but he was a dog person, and he knew he couldn’t just walk away and leave the poor thing. He wavered for a few seconds, but ultimately started to approach it cautiously, purposefully telegraphing his movements but mindful not to make enough noise to frighten the dog away.

It definitely heard him coming closer, but didn’t seem to care, focused as it was on the lump lying before it. Hank quickened his steps, more confident that the puppy wouldn’t try to bite him or flee. It rubbed its head on the bundle of fabric, its devastated whimpers growing ever louder.

Hank got close enough to touch and was about to lean down, cautiously attempting to pick the dog up, when he saw it, and gasped in utter horror.

With the darkness of the night and shadows of the adjacent buildings obscuring the details, Hank had thought the dog was sniffing at an old blanket, maybe, or a pile of tossed linens, and he was only half right.

Lying against the tavern wall was a boy, not much younger than Hank, wrapped in a rug, discarded like he was worth nothing more than the refuse that littered the alley. Hank’s gut twisted at the thought. Who could’ve done something like this?

Then Hank noticed the sticky red seeping onto the cobblestone, and he was completely overtaken with panic.

* * *

“A doctor! Is anyone--is anyone here a doctor? Please! I need help!”

Hank burst through the doors to The Cow & Corset in a great craze, his shout echoing through the walls of the tavern and no doubt waking any of the patrons renting a room for the night. Hank didn’t care; he had a boy bleeding out in his arms and growing colder by the second.

Hank’s first instinct was to unravel him, but he’d quickly reconsidered; he was reasonably certain that right now, that thick rug was all that was packing the wound in the boy’s side.

Either Hank or his mystery boy must’ve been blessed by the Light, because mercifully, someone spoke up in response to his frenzied request.

“I’m a doctor.” A man sitting at one of the tables stood briskly and sped over to them. “Where is he hurt? Let me see.”

Hank tried to angle his head towards the red spot on the rug over the boy’s stomach, hoping the man would get the gist, trying in vain to stamp his simmering panic back down before it could overflow. The doctor glanced over the boy’s form and nodded when he spotted the patch of blood.

“I’ll help you take him upstairs, I’ve got a room on the second floor. I’ll be able to examine him there.” The man started to reach for the boy, and Hank began to nod his frantic assent before he paused.

Judging from the quantity of the blood, this boy had likely been either shot or stabbed, and considering where he had been dumped it wasn’t unlikely that whoever had attacked him was either a regular patron or a current client of The Cow & Corset. The perpetrator might even still be in the tavern.

Hank froze at the thought. He flicked his eyes around nervously, and though he saw nothing suspicious he still lowered his voice when he spoke.

“I live just across the square. Could you--? Please,” Hank asked, begging with his eyes, pleading that the doctor would understand what he didn’t say.

The doctor was clearly a wise sort, as Hank saw the gleam of comprehension in his eyes as he nodded in wordless agreement, and his shoulders would’ve sagged with relief if they weren’t carrying such a precious bundle. As it was, he had no time for distraction. “I’ll run upstairs and get my supplies. Take him as fast as you are able, but don’t get out of sight of the square before I can catch up with you.”

Hank spared no time to nod. He turned on his heel, as gingerly as he could, and walked with as much evenness as he could muster back towards home, praying with every step that he wouldn’t feel the boy go limp in his arms before then. He was almost across the square when the doctor ran up to meet him, his medical supplies packed into the bag he clutched in his right hand.

“It’s just up ahead, that house right there.” Hank motioned with his head towards his home, a place he had all to himself, now that his parents had passed away, a modest two-storey residence just behind the market’s furniture shop. The back of the house had a beautiful view of the river, Hank remembered absently. Perhaps the boy would like it, if he managed to survive.

Hank shook his head of those morbid thoughts. The kid wasn’t dead yet.

The doctor ushered the two of them up to the house and through the front door, fishing the key out of Hank’s front pants pocket where he’d told him he could find it. Hank almost groaned in frenzied frustration when he realized that there were no rooms on the first floor; they’d have to get the boy upstairs.

The doctor didn’t hesitate. He helped Hank shoulder some of the boy’s weight, and they managed to carry him up the stairs and set him down on a bed quicker than Hank would’ve expected.

As soon as the boy had been laid out on the bed, the doctor got to work. Hank took a step back, sighing in some measure of relief. Illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window, the stain on the rug didn’t look quite so intimidating, though it still dripped forebodingly. Hank’s heart clenched in fear for this boy.

Something moved by Hank’s leg and he almost jumped in shock. He swiveled on his feet, ready to kick at whatever had snuck up on him, but halted in his tracks as soon as he saw the culprit.

It was the puppy, still whimpering sadly but tail waving sluggishly behind it, as if it knew they were trying to help the boy it seemed so attached to. A wave of warmth swept through Hank’s chest, and he reached down to pet the creature, wanting to console it. Shit, Hank could use some consoling himself.

“You followed me from the alley, huh? I had no idea. You must really love this human, I bet. If it hadn’t been for you, I might not’ve seen him. Good--” Hank lifted the puppy and tipped it forwards, and it yelped in indignant surprise. Hank resettled it quickly, stroking its back in apology. “Good boy.”

The dog seemed content with the wordless apology, and he snuggled into Hank’s arms placidly as they refocused their attention on the doctor, Hank anxious of what he might see but unwilling to look away or leave the room.

The doctor had carefully unwrapped the rug from the boy’s form, keeping part of it packed on his wound before enough of it was free that he could discard it entirely. He tossed it to the side and immediately sought out the source of the injury on the boy’s person.

It didn’t even require seconds of careful inspection. “He’s been shot,” the doctor informed Hank crisply.

Hank’s heart seized. _Shot_. What could such a young boy have possibly done to get himself shot?

“Luckily, the bullet’s gone all the way through. I won’t have to extract. There doesn’t look to be much damage.” The doctor frowned, and Hank clutched the puppy tighter, eliciting an upset yelp. He quickly loosened his grip, offering him a few hasty, apologetic pats.

“It’s certainly not a bad thing, but--he’s lost remarkably little blood. I wouldn’t have thought such a haphazard attempt at packing the wound would prove so effective.” The doctor shrugged. Hank’s brows furrowed. Did the man think _Hank’s_ the one who wrapped the kid in a rug?

“I suppose miracles do happen,” the doctor said as he set about clearing the wound. Hank merely stood silently, unable to come with a response.

The doctor worked diligently, only breaking the silence to bark orders at Hank, first for some candlelight to work by, which Hank quickly obliged, and then to ask that he hold the boy up on his uninjured side so the doctor could stitch up the exit wound on his back.

It was a very tense experience. The doctor worked on the boy for over an hour, Hank powerless to help through most of it, trying to focus on the sound of the kid’s rough breathing before realizing that only made him anxious that he’d hear it vanish. Hank alternated between pacing the floor pointlessly and standing frozen in rigid anticipation.

After what seemed like forever, the doctor heaved a sigh and leaned back from the bed. Hank went still at the movement and held his breath.

“He’ll live,” the doctor said, and Hank almost collapsed to the floor in relief. His knees went watery enough that he played it safe and sunk down to sit on the corner of the bed anyway.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hank said. He still wasn’t used to swearing in his house, his parents had always given him shit for it, but now seemed like an appropriate time if there ever was one.

Hank turned his gaze to the doctor, his gaze deep and sincere. “Thank you,” he said. “You don’t know me or this kid, but you helped us without a second thought. Thank you.”

The man raised an eyebrow and quirked a smile. “I’d imagine the same applies to you, if you don’t even know the boy’s name.”

Hank blushed a bit at the doctor’s commending tone, bashful, but he nodded. “Yeah, I, uh… I saw the dog,” Hank lifted the puppy into the doctor’s line of sight, and the man visibly startled, presumably having not noticed its presence before either, which was kind of hilarious even in this awful situation, “and then I saw him, and I just.” Hank averted his eyes and shrugged, lowering the puppy again. “I couldn’t leave him there.” The dog yipped pointedly in agreement.

The doctor clapped him on the shoulder with a reassuring smile. “Well, it’s quite likely that it’s thanks to you he’ll survive. I hope that when he wakes he’ll appreciate what you’ve done for him.”

Bells rang in Hank’s head and he nearly leapt off the bed. “I’m so sorry, sir, I was so distracted that I nearly forgot--how much for your services? I don’t have coin right now, but I can--”

The doctor cast Hank’s concerns away with a wave of his hand. “No payment is necessary,” the man said. “His treatment was relatively simple, it was hardly any drain on my resources.”

Hank started to protest, but the doctor pinned him in place with a stern look before he could utter a word. “Plus,” he added firmly but not unkindly, “I don’t want to get mixed up in whatever ended up with a young boy getting shot outside a tavern. I took an oath to heal, but I have a family I intend to go home to.”

His gaze softened, but Hank could tell his resolve didn’t waver. Hank lowered his eyes, and he nodded. “I understand,” Hank said. He clenched his fists. “Thank you for everything, sir.”

The doctor clapped him on the shoulder one more time. “It is my duty.” He looked over Hank’s shoulder at the sleeping boy, and then back at Hank once again. “You keep him safe, alright? Don’t let any shady characters get their hands on him.”

Hank met the man’s gaze, eyes steely, and nodded resolutely. “I will.”

* * *

It took more than a day for the boy to wake up, and Hank had nearly driven himself insane with worry by the time he finally did the second morning after Hank had brought him home.

Hank had been pacing the length of the room, in fact, thinking about what he should do, when the boy groaned loudly from the bed, shifting as he stirred at long last. Hank rushed to his side, palms open and placating, ready to make sure the kid wouldn’t try to sit up and risk tearing his wound.

“Hey, hey,” Hank soothed as best he could. “It’s alright. You’re safe. No one’s gonna hurt you, just—try not to move too much, you’re still injured.”

The boy blinked groggily, clearly addled. His expression pinched as his consciousness returned to him in increments, growing tighter and tighter as he no doubt started to register the feeling of the healing hole in his side. Sure enough, he put a hand to it, investigatory and too quick for Hank to stop him, and immediately yanked it away, hissing violently.

“Yeah, don’t—” Hank took the offending hand and laid it gently back down on the bed, “Don’t touch that. The doctor said it should be left alone until the bandages need to be changed. Plus, poking it probably hurts.” Hank tried for a wan smile.

The boy still hadn’t fully blinked his eyes open, crusty and itchy as they must’ve been after such a long and eventful sleep, so Hank doubted he caught it, but he seemed to have absorbed the words well enough. He let his hands fall back to the sheets and only moved them to take the fabric in his grip.

Hank tried to set them on the path to progress. “What’s, uh,” he began haltingly, trying to make sure the boy was really listening—he turned his head a little in Hank’s direction, and Hank figured that was as close to confirmation as he was gonna get, “what’s your name?”

He paused for a split second. “Mine’s Hank,” he tacked on hurriedly and a bit guiltily. The kid had already gotten shot, Hank didn’t want to scare him any further by acting suspicious.

The boy didn’t seem wary or skeptical, thank goodness, though he was still having trouble rejoining the land of the living, so it nonetheless took him a minute to respond. He managed to keep his eyes open long enough to focus them when he spoke.

“Connor,” he told Hank. “My name’s Connor.”

A wave of relief swept through Hank. There it was, progress. Now, all he had to do was find out what had—

Connor jolted forwards, heaving himself nearly upright on the bed, and Hank almost fell flat on his ass in alarm. He flew into motion as quick as he could, but he knew he was too late; sure enough, by the time he was close enough to attempt to gently but sternly press Connor back onto the mattress Connor was already crying out in pain, hands flying to his wound, though thankfully he caught himself before he could bring any more agony upon his person. Hank took Connor by the shoulders and leaned him back, yielding but insistent, and Connor must have been too exhausted to protest. He followed Hank’s direction without complaint.

As soon as he was horizontal again he tried to push through the pain and speak. “My brother,” he said, gasping, “my brother, he—he’s in trouble, I have to—you have to find him! He could be hurt too, he—” A terrible expression shuttered Connor’s face, his eyes going horrified and empty for several awful seconds, before he visibly shook his head of whatever dreadful thought he’d just had and lifted a hand to pull at Hank’s shirt.

“Please,” he begged, gazing into Hank’s eyes. Hank felt his heart melt with sympathy for this boy. “Please, you have to find him. He’s all I have.” Connor’s eyes welled with tears, and Hank wasn’t about to let _that_ happen, so he was incredibly quick to reassure him.

“I’ll look for him,” Hank promised, trying to sound as comforting as he knew how. “Just tell me what happened, and I’ll go.”

Connor nodded shakily, and he did.

* * *

Lord fucking Elijah Kamski was a child-shooting nutjob, who the fuck knew. Hank’s head was reeling with all the information that Connor had dumped on him before he’d left to search the city for Nines, and he plodded through the streets listlessly, his mind wandering as he steadily made his way across town to the foot of Castle Fairfax.

Hank had considered taking the dog with him, thinking he might have been able to pick up Connor’s brother’s scent or something, but he’d seemed very preoccupied with trying to slobber all over Connor’s face the second Hank had opened the door and he’d raced in the room. Hank had caught the way Connor’s expression had brightened, even after all he’d been through, and the soft “ _hey, puppy,_ ” that he probably thought Hank didn’t hear, and figured the dog would do a better job keeping Connor company while Hank took a look around town on his own.

He’d left the two of them cooing at each other over Connor’s pillow and set out.

Connor had said he didn’t know where Nines might’ve been dumped, since he’d passed out soon after he’d been shot—something struck Hank as off about the way that he’d said it, or maybe it was the way Connor wouldn’t meet Hank’s eyes, but even averted Hank could see them cloud with a devastatingly insurmountable grief that terrified him just to look at, and Hank dared not question him. He’d simply nodded and hoped he’d never have to find out what it meant.

With no leads in particular to follow, Hank figured his best bet was to investigate the area around Castle Fairfax and work his way outward. The castle itself was far too tall and large to have any real neighbors, but residents of the bustling neighborhood at the foot of it might’ve somehow seen or heard something. It couldn’t hurt to ask. Plus, it was unlikely he’d accidentally alert any of Elijah’s cohorts that Connor was still alive; the upper class rarely did things so plebeian as mingle with commoners.

Though that, Hank soon found after his first few carefully casual conversations, might no longer have been an issue. Apparently Lord Elijah had simply up and left the city two nights ago—the very same night Connor and his brother were attacked, Hank didn’t fail to notice—his staff were all dismissed, his property abandoned, and there was not a trace of his presence left. All everyone seemed to be able to talk about was where he might’ve gone, and why.

It was the fourth person Hank talked to, someone who claimed to live at the foot of the castle’s tower, who told an account that settled like ice in Hank’s chest.

“Oh, it was the night before last, yes,” the man said, nodding vigorously, “something very strange happened. Very strange! There was a bang from high above, somewhere in the castle, probably, perhaps one of the lord’s experiments—it was the middle of the night, see, I’d normally be in bed by then but I’d been trying to eradicate those damned beetles in my cellar, blasted things—and then not a moment later, a great _thunk_ on my very own roof! So loud it nearly scared me out of my own skin, it did!” The man laughed. A dawning sense of horror settled like a weight in Hank’s gut.

The man didn’t seem to notice. “And I know I won’t see nothin’ in the dark, so I wait ‘til the next morning. I go outside, and lo and behold! Five tiles had been knocked off my roof! Whatever Lord Elijah sent flying out of the sky that night, it did me over somethin’ fierce.” The man punctuated this statement with another firm nod.

Hank couldn’t muster any words for whole minutes. “Could you…” He eventually managed, “could you direct me to your house? I’d like to see for myself.”

The man did, pointing him in the direction of an alleyway three streets over, and Hank found the right building without incident. He looked up, and saw the chipped-off tiles on the edge of the roof.

He looked down, and saw the dried blood crusted in the grooves of the cobblestone.

* * *

Hank returned to Connor’s room with his heart low in his chest. His expression no doubt belied the dread he felt at the truth he had to impart. He wanted to wipe it away, for Connor, but he just couldn’t figure out how.

Connor took one look at him and started shaking his head. “No,” he begged.

Hank drew closer, entering the room. He pulled up a stool, the same one the doctor had him haul up from the kitchen two nights prior and Hank had used to watch over Connor’s bedside, and sat, taking Connor’s hand in both of his. Connor shook his head faster, pulling away some as if distance would erase the reality Hank needed him to hear.

“I found,” he began, and then halted. Connor’s eyes welled with tears. Hank closed his eyes, hoping that would make this easier, and forged onward. “I found blood. On the street. I talked to several people who—”

Hank took a deep breath. He could hear Connor sniffle. On Connor’s other side, the puppy whimpered. Hank didn’t dare open his eyes until the whole truth was out. He didn’t want know when the tears would finally fall.

“People who heard a gunshot, it sounds like, in the night. Some of them mentioned only one, but most of them—” Hank swallowed, and heard Connor’s breath hitch—“Most of them said there were two. And after the second one, they all heard—”

It was the moment of truth. Hank took a steadying breath, summoned his voice, and said, “they heard something big striking the roofs of the buildings. Connor,”

Hank finally opened his eyes, and he was sure they contained at least a fraction of the ultimate, absolutely crippling grief he could see in Connor’s own, tears dripping in rivers down his reddened cheeks as he listened, still shaking his head faintly in either disbelief or denial.

“It was Nines,” Hank told him, absolutely dejected. “Lord Elijah—fucking _Elijah_ —shot your brother off the side of the castle and—and he hit the ground below. He must’ve bled out before one of Elijah’s men could—” Hank couldn’t finish the sentence, but it didn’t matter, his meaning was clear.

Hank grasped Connor’s hand more firmly, pulling it closer to his chest. “Connor, no one could survive a fall from that height. _No one_. Much less a child who’d been—” Hank shuddered out a watery breath. “Who’d already been shot.” He caressed Connor’s hand gently with his thumbs, an utterly useless attempt at consolation.

Connor sat frozen for long moments. His tears were still flowing, but his eyes were blank. The spark had gone out. Hank could tell the words hadn’t yet sunk in. The puppy whined mournfully, leaning into Connor’s side.

Finally, Connor started to move. His head started moving again, side to side, a wordless rejection, and he tried to pull out of Hank’s grip. Hank held fast as gently as he could.

“No,” Connor whispered. “No, no, no! No!” He started to struggle, uncaring of the pain he was no doubt inflicting on himself as he agitated his wound. “He can’t be! That was—that was just a dream!”

Abject despair swept through Hank. He pulled Connor to him, yanking him close, heedless of his attacking limbs. He tucked his chin over Connor’s shoulder and held him tight, releasing Connor’s hand so he could take him in his arms. Tears of his own burned at his eyelids, blurring his vision.

Slowly, Connor started to go limp. He sagged into Hank’s embrace, boneless and despondent. A wet spot bloomed on Hank’s left shoulder. Hank gripped him ever harder.

“I failed,” Connor cried, clutching feverishly onto Hank’s shoulders. “He was—he was my _baby brother_. I was supposed to _protect_ him and I—I _failed_ him!”

Connor wailed his anguish into the evening, uncontrollable sobs racking his small frame, his grief unknowable to anyone but those who had experienced the same loss. Hank held him through it all, shushing him, soothing him, and praying to anything that might listen that Connor would never have to experience suffering like this ever again.

* * *

The hole in Connor’s side healed at a remarkable pace, but the hole in his heart festered for much longer. Weeks were enough to see Connor up and moving again, but the emptiness in his eyes lingered for long months. Not even the devoted attentions of the dog were enough to restore their spark of life.

Hank did his best to help Connor feel better, but he knew the only thing that could truly help was time. Hank’s own parents had died relatively young but of natural causes, their longtime medical problems brought on by years of dedicated labor and not enough patience for a doctor, and even though their end had been well in sight Hank had cried into his pillow long after they were both gone, leaving him alone in the family home.

That was about a year ago, now. It had been hard, being on his own, going to sleep every night in an empty house with no one to bid him good night. Hank had gotten used to it, but he couldn’t deny that even with Connor as listless as he was, it was so much better to have someone around, someone to talk to, someone to coax a smile out of. Hank hadn’t realized how lonely he had been before Connor came into his life, and he wanted to do whatever he could to help him heal.

At first, this meant books. Hank would never forget the sheer transformation of Connor’s face from that blank, dead stare to a look of reverence and awe, a spark reignited for just a second as he caught sight of a tightly-bound novel Hank had brought up from downstairs, thinking reading might distract Connor from the temptation to escape his sickbed. Connor’s expression had closed itself off almost immediately, but it was enough. Hank had deposited the book beside Connor’s bed without a word and spent the next hour locating and moving every last book in the house somewhere within Connor’s reach.

That did seem to help a little, and Hank felt himself glow with pride whenever he caught Connor absorbed in new pages, eyes wide with wonder instead of grief. It hardly seemed to matter what Hank put in front of him; he’d read anything from bedtime stories to the latest philosophical treatises to a collection of the prophecies of Arthur Dandelion that still weren’t fulfilled. Connor was getting through them quicker and quicker; Hank made a mental note to stop by Fiction Burns the next time he had a chance.

Time passed, and Connor got better. As soon as he could move around again, he was up and poking around the house—Hank had to prop him up the first few times, but it wasn’t long before Connor could stand and walk on his own, eager for a distraction to occupy his mind and body. 

And distract himself he did, Hank acknowledged with amazement. Within the first month of Connor’s regained mobility, Hank’s family home had been cleaned top top bottom, all the bookshelves had been reorganized, the dog had acquired a food bowl—Connor insisted that they were keeping him, and Hank could admit he felt a strong kinship to Connor’s one other stalwart protector—and at the same time, Connor had taught himself to cook. Hank was this close to worrying that he was taking advantage of Connor’s feeling of indebtedness, but the pleading, borderline frenzied look he got from Connor when Hank had tried to tell him he didn’t _need_ to do any of this spoke volumes about who Connor was really doing it all for.

Six months in, they had started to settle into something of a routine. The dog had been dubbed Sumo, Hank would resolutely not bring up the idea of Connor leaving, even now that he was fully healed, and Connor would insist on repaying him for his kindness by doing all the chores around the house while Hank was away during the day and couldn’t do anything to stop him. There was still a stark shadow behind Connor’s eyes, if you knew where to look, but it was nowhere near as pronounced as it had once been.

It was only after Connor had posed the question one day, after idling shiftily in front of the stove under the pretense of minding their dinner, his back to Hank like he was somehow embarrassed to be asking, that Hank realized with a jolt he’d never actually _told_ Connor what he did all day.

“I’m training to be a town guard,” Hank said as he took a seat at the kitchen table, feeling a bit guilty for letting it slip his mind. “It’s a two year training period, and then I get my first posting. I’m over a year in; I’ll be a full member of the guard come next spring.” Hank puffed out his chest in pride.

Connor sunk down into the chair across from Hank starry-eyed, enraptured by the prospect. Hank’s brows shot up; he didn’t get this look very often. Connor was daydreaming about something.

“What?” Hank asked. Connor continued staring off into space for a few moments, but eventually he averted his eyes, seeming almost abashed. He brought his hands together on the table, flexing his fingers nervously, before he spoke, still unable to meet Hank’s eyes.

“I just—” Connor heaved a great sigh. “I wish I had something to _do_ each day, that’s all. I know I can’t go back to Old Town in case someone recognizes me, but at least there I could,” he waved his hands in emphasis, “scavenge, earn money, do _something_. I like it here, I really do,” Connor gazed into Hank’s eyes as if Hank needed convincing, which, okay, maybe he did a little, “but I feel like now that I’m fully healed only to be lounging around all day I’m just,” Connor slumped dramatically onto the table, “useless.”

Hank thought ‘useless’ would be just about the _last_ thing anyone could describe Connor as, but he had a feeling that wasn’t really the point here. He considered what Connor had told him, and in his mind, a theory took root. Hank decided to test it.

“So you’re telling me you want to get an apprenticeship?”

Connor jolted back up like he hadn’t even considered it. Sumo, who’d been lurking by their feet, stumbled backwards a little in surprise, and Connor reached a hand down without looking to offer him a consoling pat on the head.

“An appre—Can I do that? I don’t think I can do that. I don’t have any formal schooling.” He blushed, as if that was something to be ashamed of in a country where most of the population was barely literate.

Hank lifted an eyebrow in challenge, leaning back in his chair. “Sure. You can read and write, can’t you? That’s all you really need for the most demanding of apprenticeships.”

Connor’s hand stilled on Sumo’s head, his expression frozen with hope. Disgruntled, Sumo pushed at Connor’s fingers, and as his fingers started moving his brain seemed to start firing again, too. His brows furrowed in concentration.

“What—what kind of apprenticeships are there? How do I get one? I can’t so simple as just walking up and asking.” His eyes bored into Hank with a look that begged it to be so simple as just walking up and asking.

Hank’s lips curled in a fond smile. “Well, it does depend on whether or not a craftsman is currently looking for an apprentice. If they’re not, you can settle for doing odd jobs or maybe negotiate with them to take you on at a later date, but it’s usually down to luck and whether or not someone can vouch for your skill.”

Connor’s expression tightened with panic for a second, and while Hank couldn’t help but laugh, he was quick to reassure. “Don’t worry, if anyone needs me to attest to your smarts I’ll just take them back here and show them the pile of books you’ve devoured that is now halfway to reaching the ceiling.”

Connor blushed bright red, and Hank wished he had the power to remember the sight with perfect clarity.

Hank smiled at him, aware that anyone else would probably recognize it as adoring. “I can ask around the market tomorrow, if you’d like. What kind of craft do you think you’d be interested in?”

Connor’s eyes lit up, and once more Hank lamented the tragedy of his imperfect memory.

* * *

Connor had had a few preferences as to what kind of craft he’d like to be working with, and Hank had a few suspicions of his own that he was willing to factor into consideration.

For starters, Connor knew he didn’t want to pursue a profession that demanded a lot of physical labor, which took the blacksmith, the jeweler, and the tailor right out of the running. Hank could’ve guessed as much; Connor seemed much more interested in intellectual pursuits, things that would tax his mind before they would his body.

In that vein, Connor had said he would also prefer not to take on a job with tasks that were too rote; he probably wouldn’t appreciate working at the general store or the furniture shop, which would both revolve around managing an inventory, performing various calculations, and not much else.

With all that in mind, Hank knew exactly where he would be heading first.

He strode into Fiction Burns with the flame of hope burning bright in his chest.

* * *

That flame was swiftly and brutally snuffed out when the bookseller apologetically informed Hank that she had no need of an apprentice, and didn’t expect to for at least several more years. Hank, not willing to give up without argument, inquired after the publisher next door; she told him with another shake of her head that no, they didn’t need anyone either, and even if they did their machines were too delicate and dangerous to be operated by children.

She ushered him back out the door with indulgent but insistent hands, and before he knew it Hank was standing dazedly in the town square, Plan A having completely blown up in his face.

Well, Hank thought as he frowned to himself, still blocking the door to Fiction Burns where the proprietress had so rudely dumped him and where he would stay until he very well felt like moving, it wasn’t like Connor had stated a preference for finding a job at the local bookstore, though Hank was sure he would’ve loved it. But, at the same time…

Now that Hank thought about it, there wasn’t really much else available that aligned with what Connor wanted. Most of the truly intellectual fields—archaeology, history, philosophy—were in truth hobbies only available to the rich, without guilds or businesses they could call their own. If Fiction Burns wouldn’t take Connor, Hank realized as his frown became a scowl, Hank wasn’t sure who would.

Perhaps he should call it quits for the day and talk it over with Connor when he got home. He’d have to apologize for being too hasty and probably for not explaining things very well, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Connor got upset with him, Hank thought dismally. Maybe tomorrow they could both—

Hank was halfway across the square when he realized something, and he stopped in his tracks. He looked back over his shoulder.

Actually, there was _one_ place...

* * *

Hank shut the front door behind him with a gentle click and leaned back to press himself into it. He huffed a steadying breath in and then out, gearing himself up. Across the open space, Connor had frozen where he was preparing to stick something in the oven. Stress baking, Hank thought fondly, even with the anxiety nipping at his heels that Connor might not like the tidings he brought.

“I have good news and bad news,” Hank began, and though the rest of him remained unmoving Connor’s face flitted between expressions so fast Hank couldn’t identify one from the other. Hank ploughed on quickly, eager to dismiss all the worst-case scenarios that were no doubt running on loop in Connor’s head.

“The bad news is, the bookstore doesn’t need anyone now or in the foreseeable future.” Connor’s expression settled on crestfallen so definitively Hank nearly tripped over himself in his haste to wipe it away.

“But,” he insisted, raising a finger in the air, “the good news is, the potions maker is looking for an apprentice.”

Connor’s look of devastation turned to one of puzzlement. He cocked his head to the side, not unlike the way Sumo often did—Sumo, who was now trying to climb onto the kitchen table so he could snag a piece of whatever Connor was making.

“The potions maker?” Connor said quizzically, picking Sumo up and holding him away from the table. Sumo had grown quite a bit, but he wasn’t yet too big to carry, and Hank and Connor were going to take advantage of that while it lasted. “I didn’t even know the city had a potions shop.”

Hank nodded. “Yeah, right in the town square. On the same side as the bookstore, but next to the river.”

Connor pressed a kiss to Sumo’s head as he thought, his brow furrowing in concentration. From the blissed out look on the dog’s face, Hank suspected Sumo was enjoying the attention more than he would’ve the treats, the little rascal.

“I’ve hardly heard anything about the potions trade. What do they do?”

Hank shrugged. He didn’t really have any idea what those alchemical concoctions were for, even after stepping into the shop to talk to the potions maker, but he knew it was something useful. The town guard had a regular monthly shipment from Potion in Motion, and they were always nearly out of it by the end of the third week.

“I’m not sure. I know the craft is closer to a science than an art—it’s hands-on but not physically demanding, and requires intelligence rather than skill to master. At least, that’s what the alchemist told me. It sounded like something you might enjoy.”

Connor’s interest had been piqued. Hank could see it in his eyes. His grip on Sumo loosened, and the dog butted his chin lightly with a put-upon whine. Connor shifted his grip so he could provide head scratches, and Sumo melted back into him, content.

“Do you want to go back with me tomorrow, to check it out for yourself? I’m sure the alchemist will be able to tell you anything you want to know.”

Connor’s excitement built, a heady vibration visible in the way he stood up straighter, his eyes shone brighter. He nodded eagerly. “Yes, please!” If Connor had a tail, Hank was sure it’d be waving as fast as Sumo’s at maximum velocity. Sumo barked happily in Connor’s arms, as if in agreement.

Hank breathed a sigh of relief, his expression relaxing into a warm smile.

If Connor was happy, Hank was happy.

* * *

They made their way across the town square together the next morning, hand in hand, and stopped before the door to Potion in Motion just before opening hours.

Connor stood frozen for a minute on the front stoop, simply staring at the door, no doubt accosted by nerves, and Hank tried to let Connor work up his courage at his own pace, only stroking a thumb across the backs of his knuckles in a wordless gesture of comfort.

And that rather pleasant moment was spectacularly shattered when the potions maker from the day before came running down the street, extremely out of breath, and definitely _not_ inside the shop setting up like he very well should have been this close to business hours. Hank shot a glare when he half-collapsed before them, annoyed at his abrupt intrusion.

The man paid Hank’s opinions no mind whatsoever.

“Ah, forgive me, so sorry I’m late. I got terribly distracted with an experiment yesterday afternoon, you see, and before I knew it, it was early morning! I’m afraid I overslept.”

He straightened, brushed himself off a bit, and moved past Hank and Connor to unlock the front door, continuing to chat all the while. “So, you’re the prospective apprentice, I take it? Wonderful, just wonderful. I do hope you take an interest in the craft. It’s been more difficult than I would’ve ever expected to find young people suited to the task; making potions requires a certain degree of cleverness, you see, which is hard enough to find around here...”

The alchemist continued on for a long time, and while Connor listened wide-eyed and with rapt attention, Hank figured he was allowed to drone the man out. He looked around the shop casually, taking in the various bits and bobs and bottles and faintly simmering liquids, and entertained himself by guessing their purposes while the potions maker, Lionel, Hank had caught, guided them around the shop.

The more Connor saw, the more his eyes lit up and the more that vibrant, excitable energy seemed to bubble up from inside him. With every strange apparatus or brightly colored concoction that came into view Connor seemed to radiate an awed sort of joy. Hank had never seen him look so happy. He’d be sure to cherish the memory.

Hank chanced a glance at Lionel and could tell the potions maker was very pleased with Connor’s reactions. As Hank started to tune back in to the conversation happening around him, he realized that he also approved of Connor’s questions, of the knowledge he demonstrated when asking and of the intelligence he displayed in their formulation. Hank suspected that there would normally be a written or oral test a prospective apprentice would have to take and pass to enter this kind of profession, but Connor had already passed it with flying colors.

Hank was going to make a _damn_ good member of the Guard one day, because come afternoon and the end of all Lionel had to show them, the man admitted exactly that.

He clapped a hand on Connor’s shoulder, commending to the utmost degree, and told them that if Connor ever, and he meant _ever_ , were to consider entering the potions making profession, Lionel would be nothing less than honored to teach him.

“I have _never_ ,” he leaned down, his eyes boring into Connor’s, their gazes level to better impart the weight and honesty of his declaration, “in all my years, come across a potential pupil with such clear alchemical talent. You, my dear boy, are exactly the kind of student I’ve been looking for. Should you ever wish to apprentice at my shop, the door will always be open.”

Connor’s smile shone brighter than the sun.

Hank had never seen anything so beautiful.

* * *

Connor accepted Lionel’s offer, of course. By the end of the week, he was an official apprentice to the alchemist at Bowerstone’s own Potion in Motion.

It took Connor five years of study to match Lionel in skill.

It took Connor two to surpass him.

* * *

The years passed in peace, and with each season that came and went Connor and Hank’s little family seemed to grow ever the happier. Sumo grew too big to jump on the kitchen table, and then he was large enough that he didn’t have to. Hank was sworn in as a member of the Bowerstone Town Guard, and Connor had never been prouder. A Hero emerged on the scene, someone finally taking up a campaign against Elijah’s wicked schemes, and Connor breathed a sigh of relief just as he quashed the sharp feeling of resentment, the knowledge that Elijah’s attempts to avoid his ultimate fate would be in vain and his brother had died for nothing.

Eventually, a decade had passed since Connor had first stumbled into Hank’s life.

They had become friends, and then family, and then two idiots who were absolutely gone on each other but refused to say anything because they were each absolutely certain that the other didn’t feel the same way.

For years, there was only Hank going out of his way to inspire even the slightest of Connor’s smiles, of Connor blushing sweetly at the lightest brush of Hank’s touch. And at the rate they were going, that never would’ve stopped.

It was Sumo who brought them together, naturally. Connor had a book out and was reading at the kitchen table, studying its pages intently, and Hank was just innocently passing by to get something out of the pantry when something large, fluffy, and fucking immovable planted itself right in front of his legs. He toppled forward with all the grace of a sack of bricks, taking Connor down with him, the chair spinning away from them once knocked by their flailing limbs.

At first, of course, there was only panic; Hank felt Connor over for injuries in between apologies, cursing Sumo, and demanding to know if Connor was alright. Connor had rolled his eyes and told him yes, Hank, he was fine, he wasn’t made of porcelain.

They locked gazes, and then immediately realized the position they were in.

Connor was sprawled on his back across the wooden floor, Hank kneeling over him, their faces nearly touching. They could feel each other’s quickening breath against their cheeks. Hurriedly, Hank tried to pull away, but Connor couldn’t help himself; he whispered, “no,” into the space between them.

Hank paused, and Connor’s lids lowered. “Stay,” he said.

Slowly, Hank drew back in.

And all the rest was history.

* * *

Their next few years were spent in absolute bliss.

The second happiest day of Connor’s life was the day Hank proposed.

The first was the day they were wed.

* * *

_“Within every lifetime there are moments of greatness, even perfection, some solitary, but others shared. On a sunny morning, under a clear sky, the villagers crowded together to witness two people stand and declare their love for each other. Some say they were a strange couple, others that they saw a story of true love... Only time would tell."_

* * *

It had been three springs since Connor and Hank had married when an unexpected guest came knocking at their door.

Hank pulled it open, wondering who they knew that had a tendency to drop by unannounced, only to immediately wish he could shut the door, turn back time and pretend not to be home when he saw who stood across the threshold.

“ _Melissa_?” He demanded, unable to help the exasperation already threading itself throughout his voice.

Hank’s least favorite cousin looked up from grimacing at her knuckles, probably splintered with the force of her banging, and brightened when she saw him in a way that spelled nothing but trouble.

“Hank!” She exclaimed, drawing out the name long enough for her to shove past him and through the door. Hank cursed himself for letting her slip by. Across the room, Connor rose from his seat at the kitchen table, a look of concern forming on his face, and at his feet, Sumo picked his head up, curious about all the fuss.

Hank shoved himself in front of Melissa before she could barge any further into their home, only just restraining himself from grasping her by the arms and physically holding her in place.

“What are you doing here,” he said without inflection. Connor had made his way around the table and came to stand beside him, settling a comforting arm around his waist. Hank was able to relax a fraction at the touch, and leaned into it.

Melissa, on the other hand, beamed. “Oh, you know! It’s just been so long since we’ve last seen each other! I heard you got married, and I thought, oh, I just have to stop by and offer my congratulations.”

She turned to Connor and gave him a long, appreciative once-over. “And congratulations _are_ in order, I see. What a hunk! Great work, cuz!” She smacked Hank on the arm, and he instantly went rigid again, hissing through his teeth in aggravation. Beside him, Connor blushed brilliantly.

That only served to turn Melissa’s approving grin into a smirk, so Connor turned to bury his face in Hank’s shoulder.

“And as it turns out, I need a little help with something, and when I heard the news, I thought, who better to turn to than family?” And _there_ it was. Her beaming smile was all teeth.

“No,” Hank demanded. Whatever ‘something’ was, Hank wanted no part of it, and he wanted Connor mixed up in it even less. As little as Hank saw of her growing up, it was enough to know that Melissa’s favors only ever ended in disaster.

She smacked Hank’s arm again, and this time he physically flinched, jostling Connor, who ran a soothing hand down his side in sympathy. “Come on, Hank, at least hear me out before you shoot me down! It’s no big deal, really. I’d only need your help for, oh, a few months, tops.”

Hank let out a controlled breath, summoning as much patience as he could muster. Connor gazed at him worriedly, and Hank wound an arm around him consolingly, pulling him into his side. He kissed the top of Connor’s head, breathed in, steeled himself, and then turned to face the music.

“Okay. Help with _what_.”

Some would say that her grin grew brighter, but Hank knew the right words were ‘more sinister.’ To Hank’s surprise, Melissa turned completely around and took a few steps towards the door, where she motioned with a hand towards something outside the threshold.

“I just need you to take care of this little guy for a short while.” She pointed at a large bundle on the ground.

Hank walked back to the door, Connor at his side, to see Sumo sniffing curiously at a wide basket Melissa must’ve left on their porch, poking his nose inside where there was--

Hank froze where he stood. Beside him, Connor brought both hands to his mouth and breathed an adoring coo.

On the porch. On Connor and Hank’s porch, the steps of their _home_ , there was--

A newborn baby.

A baby that giggled happily as Sumo tried to shove his big fluffy face into the basket it was nestled in, grabbing at his wet nose with short, chubby fingers.

Hank was struck absolutely dumb. Connor looked like he wanted to wrap the baby up in his arms, but was too nervous to make a move. Thankfully, in the wake of their ineptitude, Melissa saw fit to explain why, indeed, there was a baby on their porch.

“So I met someone,” she began with a contrived blush, and Hank could only think, _obviously_. “A _very_ handsome doctor, who saw to me after my,” she waved a careless hand down at the infant on the ground, and Hank’s brows furrowed. “And we just hit it off! Only, the thing is, he doesn’t really like, you know,” she waved the hand again, “kids. So I just need you to take care of this little squirt for a month or two while I take my precious new beau for a spin!”

She started backing away, back out onto the porch, and Hank should’ve _realized_ what was about to happen, but he was still too dumbfounded to notice, and Connor was of course still preoccupied with the adorable child set in front of him.

“I’ll be back for him in a couple of months. He was born on March third. He’s healthy, he’s got no allergies or medical problems, and the midwife gave him the all clear! Have fun, Hank and husband, goodbye!”

And with that she took off down the street, faster than Hank would’ve thought a new mother would’ve ever been able to. For several moments, he and Connor stood frozen in disbelief. When Hank finally came back to his senses, he was almost newly paralyzed with fear at the implications of what he’d, _they’d_ , been saddled with. Melissa was no doubt long gone in the maze of back alleys of Bowerstone, but he still had half a mind to run after her, make her _take her kid back_ , holy _shit_ , who does that? Who just leaves their child for a, a hook-up?

Connor, ever the cool head in times of crisis and emotional upheaval, broke out of his own daze much sooner, and knelt to take the giggling child into his arms, careful not to bump him against the handle of the basket. He smiled down at the boy lovingly, cradling the infant to his chest, and Hank--

Hank had never seen anything so beautiful. Connor, his Connor, looking at the child with such blatant adoration, such unabashed affection--in the face of it, Hank’s heart melted. He took a step towards them, hesitantly, not quite ready to look at his nephew, but knowing he had to all the same. At their feet, Sumo whined, mournful that Connor had stolen his new human before he had the chance to lick all over its face. Hank reached down a hand without looking to offer him a consoling pat on the head.

Hank held his breath, and looked over Connor’s shoulder.

If Hank’s heart had melted before, its liquid form had now dissolved into a fine vapor, a multitudinous gas that filled up his chest and spread throughout his whole body, transforming into a wave of sheer happiness that threatened to swallow him whole.

Hank and Connor had talked about it. They knew they wanted kids, somewhere down the line. But _this_ \--they were hardly ready. And what would they do if, _when_ Melissa came back for her boy?

Hank wrapped an arm around Connor’s waist, and even amidst the pulsing swell of happiness, he recognized the bitter undertone.

Hank and Connor were already wrapped around this baby’s finger. If Melissa ever came back for her child, ever tried to take him away--

They would be heartbroken.

But that possibility was as far off as it ever would be, and at the moment, there were more pressing problems. Connor addressed Hank absently as the baby played with his free hand, unable to wrap his fingers all the way around any of Connor’s own.

“We’ll need someone to nurse him until he’s old enough to eat solid foods. I think the midwives say about six months? He looks only about one month now…”

As one of the older boys, Connor had been expected to tend to some of the youngest children during his stay at the Bowerstone Orphanage, and as a result he knew more about the care of infants than most. Hank was surprised to see he had retained so much of that knowledge. He leaned his head on Connor’s shoulder, a wordless indication that he was listening.

“We’ll need to find a doctor, of course, just to make sure he’s truly healthy. And we’ll need to get him clothes, and a crib--the basket’s soft enough with all the blankets that he’ll probably be fine there for tonight, if we don’t have anywhere else for him to sleep, but we really should pick up something from the furniture store tomorrow at the latest--”

Connor continued on, and Hank did his best to catalogue everything in his head, in order of priority. He gazed into their baby’s beaming face as he planned. Step one, find a wet nurse--their neighbor had a daughter a few months ago, perhaps she would be willing to nurse him--step two, buy a crib, step three…

Connor, so far staying strong in his steady stream of instruction, abruptly cut off.

“Hank,” he said, with what sounded like a mix of anxiety and slowly building horror, “what did she say his name is?”

Hank tensed for several seconds, and then relaxed with a weary sigh. Typical fucking _Melissa_.

“She didn’t,” Hank admitted. Connor looked absolutely gobsmacked. Next to them, Sumo had clambered atop one of the kitchen table’s chairs, shoving his huge body onto the relatively small space precariously, and was whuffing contentedly as he was finally high enough to press his face into Connor’s chest just above the baby’s squirming, giggling form.

Connor stroked the baby’s cheek comfortingly, as if to reassure the child that he was still wonderful despite his mother’s terrible flippancy to the point of not even naming him. “Then what should we call him?” He whispered, staring worriedly into those Anderson blue eyes, near mirrors of Hank’s own.

Hank stroked a thumb down Connor’s flank where his hand gripped just above Connor’s waist. He’d known, actually, what he would put forward for baby names when the time came, but he wanted Connor to have the first choice. He’d thought Connor might want to name their child after his brother, or perhaps his parents, and he wanted Connor to have that opportunity. But evidently, Connor had no such plans. He looked to Hank to make the decision.

Hank gazed down at his family, members old and new but all dearly beloved, and offered a name to the smiling faces before him.

“Cole,” Hank said. “I think we should name him Cole.”

* * *

_“Bringing a child into the world lends a new perspective on all things. When parents look upon their baby for the first time, they realise that until now they had no idea what love really was. They see before them all possible lives the child might live. Every choice is yet to be made.”_

* * *

The next few weeks were a bit of a mad scramble, but when all was said and done it was plainly obvious to all that had witnessed that Hank and Connor had taken to parenting like Connor had to potions and Hank to guard work, which is to say, like it was their calling. 

Hank was lucky enough to catch the furniture store before they closed and purchase a crib that very first evening. They installed it in the master bedroom, just across the room from their bed. Sumo trailed after them curiously as they set it up, needing to sniff absolutely everything. Hank kept tripping over him with a spew of muttered curses, and Connor had to stop almost every time, rendered incompetent with laughter.

Before that, Hank had stopped by the neighbors’, and thankfully the woman with the newborn daughter had been home. Hank confessed the situation, sheepish of the short notice and embarrassed by his cousin, but the woman, Mrs. Hardy, had been completely taken in by the story, and had waved away his attempts at apologies for the bother with tears in her eyes as she fussed. She agreed to nurse Cole for as long as he needed it, and Hank was sure to thank her with all the sincerity he knew how to express.

Then, it was simply a matter of dealing with all of the baby necessities that they hadn’t thought of. They put diapers on their list, but they forgot about clothes until Day 2--Hank was ordered on a rather frantic rush to the tailor’s, only to realize he didn’t know what size clothing Cole would need--Hank hadn’t even known babies _had_ clothes sizes--so he had to go racing back to the house, take Connor and Cole with him back to the tailor’s, and of course this meant that Sumo had to come along, too, happily carrying the lead to his own leash in his mouth as he trotted along behind them, before they could acquire appropriate clothing for the child.

They purchased regular baby clothes, and something light for Cole to wear at night that the tailor had recommended--thank the Light for people who’d already had kids, Hank thought anxiously, he’d have never thought of this stuff on his own--and made arrangements to come back when Cole started to outgrow what they’d just bought. All of it put a small but noticeable dent in Hank and Connor’s savings, Hank realized absently, and considered with great bitterness that perhaps _this_ was what Melissa was really trying to escape by saddling her most convenient relative with her newborn child. Well, the joke’s on her; Hank could already tell that having Cole in his life was worth more gold pieces than he or Connor could ever earn.

When the family got back home from the tailor’s, Connor making gooey-eyed faces at Cole while the baby giggled happily and grabbed at his face and Sumo attacking his leash now that it had become a liability, Hank realized with a jolt that it was a work day. Connor had contacted Lionel the night before and arranged for a few weeks off while he and Hank got settled in with their new child--the man apparently had nothing but congratulations and well-wishes, eagerly slapping Connor with one more week of paid time off than he had asked for--but Hank hadn’t had any way to get in touch with his brigade. They had no idea what he was up to, and he was--Hank glanced frantically around the room to the clock--over an hour and a half late for his shift.

He told Connor he’d forgotten about work, got an “oh, shit,” followed by Connor pressing his own hand to his mouth with a scandalized gasp as he looked down in horror to the impressionable infant in his arms in response, and stopped laughing for just long enough to press a kiss to Connor’s forehead, his mouth being presently unavailable, before bolting out the door and off towards his post.

The remainder of his shift was uneventful. Hank went to the sheriff at the end of the day to apologize for and explain his prolonged and unexpected absence, expecting to be thoroughly reprimanded, but by the end of his tale Hank was a little stunned to see the sheriff wiping delighted tears from his eyes, bent over from the force of his guffawing.

Instead of a pay cut, Hank got a hearty clap on the shoulder and two weeks of paid leave, both of which the sheriff bestowed upon him with a proud gleam in his eyes. “I’d offer you more if I could, son, but I’m afraid that’s all the guard can spare on such short notice. You said that husband o’ yours works a shop, yeah? I hear those jobs are easier to work around the arrival o’ little ones. But you figure it out, and if you need more time at home settlin’ your boy in, don’t hesitate to ask. We’ll work it out for you, Hank. You’re one of the Guard’s best an’ brightest, and we take care o’ our own.”

The sheriff nodded to Hank resolutely, and Hank offered a grateful smile in return.

He returned home to Connor and Sumo with the good news, Cole reaching for him happily when he came into view.

“He missed you,” Connor said, love in his eyes, the quirk of his lips, the care with which he held their baby son. _Their_ son. Shit. _Shit_.

Hank stroked a careful finger across Cole’s buttersoft cheek. Cole giggled, his blue eyes shining, and tried to grab Hank’s finger, eager to catch it and stick in his mouth. Sumo was already rubbing off on him. Beside Hank, holding Cole, Connor was staring at the both of them with unbridled affection, adoration almost effusing from his body, as if he was simply incapable of holding it all in. Hank leaned his head on Connor’s, powerless to do anything but melt under the force of that emotion.

Fuck. Fuck Melissa. If she ever tried to come back for Cole, for _their_ son--

Hank wouldn’t let her. Cole was his and Connor’s and Sumo’s now, and there was no twist of fate or force of nature or mechanism of man that was powerful enough to change that.

* * *

At the one month mark, Hank and Connor started to get nervous. At the second, they were panicking at every knock on their door. When the third month came around with absolutely no word from Melissa, they started to relax. Perhaps she’d forgotten about her baby. Perhaps she understood that they wouldn’t be able to give him up.

They settled into a stunningly domestic lifestyle. They’d get up in the morning, go their separate ways to work--Hank and Connor would kiss goodbye, and Connor would be off with Cole to Potion in Motion. Cole loved going to work with Connor, ever since he was a baby--Connor spent most of his job very much distracted, of course, but he wasn’t the one manning the counter, and he and Cole had a blast watching Connor’s various experiments bubble and boil and, on occasion, explode. Cole’s baby safety gear was just about the cutest thing Hank had ever seen.

Hank would be off to wherever he was stationed that morning, Sumo following after him more often than not. He’d trailed behind Connor and Connor alone for a good few years, but even his unshakeable canine devotion faltered a bit at the reality that he had nothing to do but sit around the shop for a few hours each day. One day, he tried following Hank instead, and found much more entertainment walking the streets with him on his shift. Hank hadn’t been able to get rid of him ever since.

Two years went by like this. And then, without any warning whatsoever, Melissa showed back up.

“Hey Hank!” She wheedled, fidgeting where she stood on the front porch. Hank braced his hand on the doorframe and situated himself more firmly in the center of the doorway, determined to block her way if she tried to get past him. Behind him, Connor scooped Cole into his arms from where he was playing with his toys on the kitchen floor, carefully inching back towards the staircase. Sumo followed worriedly at his heels.

“Melissa,” Hank offered carefully. He tightened his knuckles around the threshold. “What are you doing here?”

Melissa seemed to fidget harder, a pained expression pulling at her face. “Well, I _did_ say I’d be back eventually. Just, the months flew by, and before I knew it, it had been two years! So, um. I guess I can take the kid off your hands now. Better late than never, right, cuz?” She flashed him a strained smile.

Hank’s expression turned thunderous. He fought not to move any closer, not to give her the space she would’ve needed to squeeze into the house.

“You’re not taking him,” Hank warned her, his voice cold as ice. He could hear Connor rushing Cole up the stairs behind him. “You can stay here if you want to be in his life, we can’t deny you that, but. He’s our _son_ , Mel. We named him, raised him, you--you can’t take him away from us.” Hank’s voice started to break, and his stance lost a frightening amount of its tension, the fight bleeding out of him. He’d beg if he had to, but he just couldn’t--

“Oh, thank the Light!” Melissa pumped her hand in the air, a blinding grin overtaking her just before strained countenance. Hank stumbled backward in shock, completely dumbfounded. “Well, that all works out then, cuz! Congrats on the happy family you’ve got here, I’m so proud. I owe you forever for this, Hank, love you!” She threw her arms around him in an awkward hug that pressed his elbows painfully and unnaturally into his sides, before pulling herself away to beam at him one last time.

“Good luck!” She called, already descending the porch and making her way back down the street. “I’ll be sure to send a birthday gift for the squirt next time spring rolls around! March, uh--thirteenth, right?”

“Third,” Hank called after her, too bewildered to be incensed on his son’s behalf.

“Right!” She hollered back, almost out of sight now. “Bye-bye, Hank and husband! Thanks so much!”

She melted into the distance and faded from view.

And that was how Hank and Connor adopted their son Cole.

* * *

One day, not long after Melissa had made her final visit, Connor turned to Hank as they set the dinner table, watching Sumo and Cole play with some of Cole’s toys across the room.

“Hey, Hank,” he said, a deep furrow in his brow, one that instantly set Hank’s curiosity alight--that was Connor’s ‘something’s really confusing me and I don’t know how to deal with it’ look, and hardly anything was complicated enough to inspire it--“How old do you think Sumo is by now?”

Hank frowned. Now that Connor mentioned it--five, ten, fifteen--shit. _Shit_.

Hank’s expression mirrored Connor’s. “If I’m counting right, he’s eighteen years old now.” Hank wasn’t nearly as good at math as Connor, but he was still better than most people, and he knew he was counting right. It had been eighteen years. It _had_ , but--

“Aren’t big dogs only supposed to last about ten years, tops?” Connor leaned in and whispered in Hank’s ear, not wanting Cole to overhear. They’d both worried themselves sick about the idea that they’d lose Sumo, that he would die naturally while Cole was still young enough to feel like that dog was his entire world, and their son would be devastated. But Connor was right--the Guard used big dogs in their work sometimes, it was why he’d been allowed to have Sumo on his shifts, though the dogs were only ever serviceable for a few years before they were too old to keep at it anymore. And Sumo was _eighteen years old_.

They glanced at each other, and then back at their son, and back to each other. They shared a mental shrug.

“I won’t question it if you won’t,” Hank offered.

Connor looked at Connor and Sumo one more time, and then turned his gaze back to Hank, his mind set.

“Deal.”

* * *

Connor was at the kitchen sink, humming contentedly while washing the dishes as Cole devoured his latest book on the other side of the room, his back pillowed by Sumo’s heaving side. He was six years old now, but the gigantic dog still dwarfed him.

With a great burst of noise, just as Connor was settling a bowl atop the drying rack, the front door banged open. Connor jolted in shock, dropping the bowl that was, thankfully, held hardly an inch above the drying rack at the time of this upheaval.

Connor whirled around in confusion, seeing Hank at the door--Hank, doubled over, heaving for breath, which given how his job left him in great physical condition meant he had either run across town or sprinted from somewhere closer, which he sucked at--and wordlessly filled a glass of water to offer to him, patting his back soothingly as he grabbed it and sucked it all down gratefully.

“The Sparrow,” Hank breathed from the doorway, growing visibly impatient with his inability to catch his breath. He gulped and tried again, but only seemed to run his breath even more ragged.

Connor pulled him up to his feet, trying to direct him to one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Hank shook his head vigorously at the offer to sit, which greatly perplexed Connor.

“What about him?” Connor asked. The Sparrow--they’d heard of him, sure, and the other Hero, the Hero of Strength. He was active in Albion for about a year before he vanished, and Kara began picking up the slack. Connor knew the Sparrow had been active again recently--he’d finally taken down Elijah, not too long ago. The day he’d heard, Connor had vowed he’d hunt the man down and thank him, should he ever show his face in Bowerstone.

“His name--” Hank began, and he suddenly turned in Connor’s grip, pulling around so he could look him in the eyes. A trickle of uncertainty pooled in Connor’s heart. “The Sparrow’s name is _Nines_.”

* * *

It made sense. It all made sense, they had the blood of _Heroes_ , Elijah had said it _himself_ that one of them was the fourth, how could Connor have been so _blind_ \--

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, because his brother, his precious, baby brother, was _alive_.

And he was in Bowerstone.

Hank had stumbled through a breathless explanation as best he could, and Connor had done his best not to vibrate out of his skin or shake Hank to make the words come quicker.

Hank had been drinking with other members of the Guard at The Cow & Corset, having some fun on their day off, when he’d overheard people at the next table talking about the Sparrow moving to Bowerstone. Hank, intrigued and unaware of such a development, had asked them what they knew.

They told him he’d moved in with a _ship_ , of all things, that he kept docked in the river outside the Old Town gate. He hadn’t done anything of note since arriving there, but the people of Old Town were apparently having great fun gawking at him and the dashing rogue he brought with him that was allegedly his lover.

Hank was starting to tune out, honestly, as the conversation had been rapidly devolving into shameless gossip, when the woman at the table mentioned something that had him listening back in.

“And his name is somethin’ awful strange, too,” she’d said. “Some number, sounds like. Nines.”

And Hank had toppled over in his chair.

He’d rushed to Connor immediately with his information, which brought them to the present, and suddenly Connor was frozen in his tracks. His brother was. Nines was.

But where could he _find_ him?

Hank placed a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Old Town, Connor. We can start there. If nothing else, we can stake out his ship until he comes back. Hey,” He leaned down so he could stare directly into Connor’s stricken, panicked eyes. “We’ll find him. You’ll see him again soon.”

Shakily, Connor nodded. “Cole,” he murmured, gaze slowly flicking from Hank to their son and back, uncertain. “Who’ll take care of…?”

Hank shot him a sly smirk. “I don’t see why he can’t come along to meet his uncle, yeah? Just gimme a second, I can carry him when I catch my breath.”

A giddy grin slowly took over Connor’s face until he was almost vibrating with uncontainable energy. He threw his arms around Hank in a great hug, tears born of immense relief prickling at his eyes.

“He’s alive, Hank,” Connor whispered into Hank’s shoulder. “My baby brother’s _alive_.”

Connor could feel Hank’s smile pressed into his own shoulder. “I know, Connor,” Hank told him. “and I can’t wait to meet him.”

Connor smiled.

* * *

They set off for Bowerstone Old Town at a quick pace, Hank hoisting Cole up on his shoulders and Connor leading Sumo at his side. They were about a quarter of the way there when a local stopped them and let them know that the Sparrow had gone the other direction not half an hour ago, off to the market with his lover.

Connor nearly crumpled to the ground at the force of the wave of anxiety and irritation that came over him, but Hank’s steady hand on his arm helped him keep his footing. He leaned into Hank for a moment, taking a deep breath, before mustering a reassuring smile once more. He reached up to give Cole a kiss on the forehead, which the boy tried to wipe away with a laugh, and they turned around, setting a course back to the Town Square.

They picked up the pace, and ten minutes later they were back home, but still with no Sparrow in sight. The Town Square was just down the street. Connor was starting to worry that they might miss the Hero entirely.

They kept on towards the square.

As soon as they stepped into the plaza, Connor saw it. A head above the crowd, easily taller than anyone else--and too broad to be anyone but a Hero.

Connor started shoving his way through the crowded square.

It felt like it took forever to take a single step--it felt like those nightmares where you try to run but your limbs feel slow as molasses and you can’t seem to make yourself move. Distantly, Connor registered Hank pulling Cole off of his shoulders and setting him on his own feet, likely keeping a tight grip on his hand so he wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. Sumo hung back with them as Connor forged onward. The people Connor pushed past exclaimed angrily as he yanked them out of the way.

He was halfway there. “Nines!” He yelled, desperate.

The Sparrow stopped walking. A spark of hope coursed through Connor’s chest. The man at the Sparrow’s side slowly turned his head, and froze when he saw Connor.

Connor finally made it through the crowd and stumbled to a stop just behind the Hero. He heaved for breath. He’d broken out into a cold, anxious sweat.

“Nines,” he begged, exhausted and raw, “is that...Is that you?”

Connor found himself holding his breath, and he didn’t know how to release it. Slowly, the Sparrow turned.

He was Nines.

* * *

Connor’s breath shuddered out of him in a joyful gasp, elated tears pooling in his eyes. Hank was right, it was _Nines_ , the Sparrow was _Nines_ , his brother was _alive_ and _right here in front of him_ \--

“Oh, fuck--” was all Connor could say before he gave up on words and pulled Nines into a hug, grasping him with every ounce of strength he possessed.

“Fuck, Nines, you’re _alive_ , holy shit--” Connor abruptly pulled back enough to take Nines’s face into his hands, cupping his cheeks and pulling their foreheads together. “Fuck, _fuck_ , you--you’re so big now! How did that--”

Connor’s voice died away. Nines’s eyes were blank, unmoving. Uncomprehending. Worried, Connor swiped a thumb across Nines’s cheekbone, but the motion elicited no response.

Slowly, Nines’s hand started to move. He brought them, shaking, up to Connor’s waist; they didn’t really grip there, only hovering madly over the skin, as if Nines was too afraid to touch. Tentatively, Connor moved his arms back down over Nines’s shoulders, crushing them together once more.

For several moments, Nines did nothing but let his arms hang in the air.

And then something clicked.

Connor felt strong hands tighten and warp the fabric at his back, nearly tearing his shirt in two with the force of their twisting. Nines squeezed Connor hard, harder than anyone else ever had in his life, harder than anyone else likely could. He sniffled once, into Connor’s shoulder, and then--

The tears came.

Nines crushed Connor to his chest, pulling him as close as their bodies would allow, and sobbed until his tears had soaked Connor’s shoulder, until the sound of his crying had disturbed the surrounding crowd enough that a neat circle of confused spectators had formed around them. Connor ran a soothing hand through Nines’s hair, trying to soothe his brother like he used to, but it hardly seemed as effective when tears were pouring from his own eyes just as profusely.

“Where have you been?” Connor murmured into his brother’s shoulder as he heaved and shuddered and wailed. “How did you survive? How have you been all these years? I--”

“What,” Nines forced out in between staggered sobs, the first time he’d tried to speak since he realized who he was looking at, and Connor silenced immediately.

Nines sucked in a slow breath and pushed it out in one even exhale. His voice came out small and shaky. His fingertips tightened on Connor’s back.

“What were our parents’ names?”

It was like lighting had struck Connor through to his core.

Their parents’...? But of course. Of course he wouldn’t remember. Nines was only six years old when their parents died, he only knew them as Mom and Dad. After, at the orphanage, they hadn’t talked about their parents much. It was often too painful to talk about what they’d lost.

And then Connor had lost Nines, too.

Except he hadn’t. Nines had somehow survived thinking Connor was dead, thinking that the only person left who would’ve known their parents’ names was gone, and for the rest of his life he would never…

Oh Light, Connor thought with dread. How many years had Nines been beating himself up about this?

Quickly, Connor pulled away so he could look Nines in the eyes--he had to strain fruitlessly again Nines’s iron grip a few times, but he eventually got the message--and brought his hands back to his brother’s face, pulling their foreheads together again and forcing Nines to look at him.

“Sarah and Kyle,” Connor said intently, boring his gaze into Nines’s watery blue eyes. “Our mother’s name was Sarah,” Connor pulled his thumbs across Nines’s cheeks, “and our father’s name was Kyle.”

For a few seconds, Nines simply stared. Then the mask broke, and Nines’s face screwed up with renewed emotion, and unable to form words, he simply nodded, indicating that he heard. He knew now, and he wouldn’t forget again.

They stood clutching each other in the middle of the Town Square for what must’ve been many minutes, enough for the surrounding crowd that had stopped to stare to get bored of the spectacle and start resuming their normal business. Connor had his head shoved into his brother’s shoulder, but he remained aware enough to notice that the man next to Nines was still there, hovering a few steps away, seemingly unsure of what to do. He could hear Hank and Cole come to a stop behind him, waiting about the same distance away. Sumo had trotted over to their feet and plopped down to where he was now leaning mournfully on Connor’s leg.

After a long time, slowly, reluctantly, they started to let go of each other. The second Nines pulled away, the man was at his side again. Once Connor was once more within reach, Hank and Cole followed suit, coming to rest at Connor’s shoulder. Though they had otherwise parted entirely, Connor couldn’t bear to let go of his brother quite yet, and held Nines’s left hand in a warm grip, their final point of contact. Nines didn’t seem inclined to let Connor go either, and squeezed their hands tightly together, such that Connor doubted any force could separate them.

“Ah, hi,” The man next to Nines ventured after a moment, raising a hand in something like a wave and startling Connor enough that he jolted a bit. Hank placed a soothing hand on Connor’s back, and he tried to relax into it, to let his nerves bleed away. This was all a lot to process.

To his credit, if the man noticed, he was polite enough not to comment. “I’m Gavin Reed. Nines’s one true love. We _totally_ thought you were dead.”

And with that, Nines yanked his head to the side and smacked Gavin’s arm with his free hand, but the playful smile on his face gave him away. It felt so strange, seeing Nines express such a different emotion. Connor never wanted it to stop.

Connor felt Hank’s hand on his back squeeze in question, and his manners, just before lost to the storm of emotions, came back to him all at once.

“Oh, right--this is Hank, my husband,” Connor gestured to Hank with his free hand, and Hank smiled amicably, if a little nervously, bless his heart, “and this is our son, Cole.” Connor indicated Cole by reaching down and ruffling his hair where he had attached himself to Hank’s leg. Cole shrieked happily at the assault, grinning broadly as he tried to dislodge Connor’s hand from his head.

At Connor’s feet, Sumo boofed unhappily, staring up at him with the sad puppy eyes Connor and Hank had been so sure he’d outgrow, once upon a time. Connor smiled down at him, amused. “And _this_ is our dog, Sumo.” Sumo barked in pleased agreement.

When Connor turned back to look, Nines seemed absolutely stunned. “You’re--you’re married. And you have a _kid_ , that’s…” His eyes, still red and inflamed from his previous bout of crying, started to water anew. “That’s amazing. I’m so--I’m so glad--”

Nines couldn’t seem to manage any more words than that, and hand to stop there to try and reign in the tears before they became another flood. Beside him, Gavin curled into his side, pulling him into a loose hug and whispering meaningless noises of comfort into his ear. Nines clutched at him for a few moments, and with Gavin’s help, seemed to pull himself back together much quicker than he could before.

He sniffled and dried his eyes one last time, until his next breath was steady enough that he could speak, only to find he didn’t know what to say. He looked at Connor, Hank, and Cole, and beamed bright enough to block out the sun. His gaze caught on Cole, and he seemed to realize something. His smile turned softer, and he knelt down to better look Cole in the eye, finally tugging his hand out of Connor’s loosened grip.

Cole shrunk further behind Hank’s leg in response, and Hank made a noise of embarrassed chastisement, to no effect. Nines didn’t seem to mind Cole shrinking from him, and made a point not to further intrude on his space.

“Hello, Cole,” Nines greeted him. Cole didn’t move from his hiding place, but Connor could see the spark of curiosity in his eyes starting to outweigh any shyness. “My name is Nines. I’m your uncle. I’m very happy to meet you.”

Cole stared at Nines for several moments, taking in his hulking form, his callused hands, his face, so much like Connor’s, and the many tools and weapons strapped in place across his body, draped about his person like a common citizen would wear a jacket. The look on his small face turned to awe.

“Are you a Hero?!” Cole exclaimed, jumping out from behind Hank’s leg, all prior nervousness forgotten. Nines’s expression shifted all at once, and suddenly his cheeks puffed out with the force of trying to hold in his laughter.

He managed to tamp it down enough to respond. “Yes,” he told Cole, his voice still scratchy with withheld mirth, “I am. And so is Gavin there,” Without looking, Nines pointed a thumb in Gavin’s direction, and Gavin waved dramatically in their direction. Cole’s eyes went wide.

“And, come to think of it,” Nines realized, “your father could be, too.” Connor jolted where he stood, and pointed a finger at himself, incredulous. Everyone turned to stare at him. “ _Me_?” He asked Nines.

Nines stood up and looked Connor over assessingly, and then shrugged. “Sure. We’ve got the same blood. It’d make sense.”

Connor was reeling. _Him_ , a Hero?

Like that’d ever happen.

He shook his head, disbelieving. Nines shrugged again, and Gavin smirked with an incredulous huff. Connor narrowed his eyes at him, but he only held his gaze for a moment before looking away, seeming for all the world as guiltless as he certainly wasn’t.

“A Hero,” Connor muttered dazedly. “Is that really what you’ve been doing all this time? I never would’ve thought…” Connor cast a glance towards Cole, bouncing excited around Hank’s legs, and stepped closer to Nines, trying to get out of earshot. Hank saw what he was doing and seemed to understand, scooping Cole up and onto his shoulders and carrying him a few steps away, listening to their son chattering on about how he was gonna learn so many Hero things from his cool Hero uncle.

“Nines,” Connor said, pressing into Nines’s space, “I thought you were _dead_. How did you survive? You got shot out a window, we were so high up--”

Connor was starting to work himself into a panic, but Nines was able to quell it with a steady hand on his shoulder, interrupting him before he could continue.

“Amanda saved me,” he said, cutting Connor off. Connor’s brows furrowed in obvious confusion. “Ah, the woman, the--do you remember, that day? The blind woman in the red cloak?”

Connor’s eyes burst wide. “She’s the one who--?”

Nines nodded, relieved. “Yes, that’s Amanda. She saved me, she helped me heal, helped me get stronger so I could--” and Nines abruptly cut off. Confusion flashed across his face, and he looked lost, like he’d become trapped in thoughts that were unfamiliar and terrifying. Concern pooled in Connor’s heart.

“...Nines?” Connor ventured, placing what he hoped was a soothing hand on Nines’s arm. Beside them, Gavin drew closer from where he’d been hovering a few feet away, leaning into Nines’s space as he tried to draw him out of whatever dark thoughts he was having.

Neither of their efforts proved effective. Nines’s expression didn’t change. He stood like that, lost in his own little world, for a good moment, before he gave up and started moving instead. He reached into his shirt for something, and Connor stepped back so he wouldn’t get elbowed in the sternum--and Nines pulled out a large, round carving, about the size of his hand, intricately decorated but without any obvious purpose. Connor stared at it curiously, only for his eyes to almost bug out of his head when Nines turned to speak at it.

“Amanda,” he demanded into the carving. “Connor’s alive. Why didn’t you tell me?”

For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Gavin and Nines were frozen, staring intently at the wood. And then, to Connor’s absolute _bafflement_ , a voice rang out of it and into the air around them.

“That’s impossible,” the voice said, sounding rather off-put. “What are you talking about?”

Slowly, Nines brought his eyes up to look at Connor, who shrunk a little under the force of that gaze. “I’m looking right at him.”

Silence for a few more moments.

“...Hold on.”

A round beam of light appeared at Connor’s right, and he stumbled back in shock, though Gavin and Nines seemed entirely unphased by its appearance. Within seconds, a figure appeared in the brightness, and the light faded back into nothing with a woman taking its place.

The woman, Connor recognized. Amanda.

She turned and regarded Connor with a cold, unseeing, yet somehow assessing stare that pinned him in place. He dared not move. She seemed to grow more irritated the longer she stared at him. Nines, in turn, only seemed more vindicated.

Eventually, she spoke, sounding utterly bewildered, and addressed Connor at a complete loss. “What have you been _doing_ all this time?”

Connor went rigid. “Um. Living in Bowerstone? With my family? I work at the potion shop.” Connor waved a hand in the direction of the nearby Potion in Motion.

Amanda stared fiercely at him for several moments more, only to relax with a put-upon sigh. “So, absolutely nothing of consequence. Well, that explains it, I suppose.”

Nines was looking between Connor and Amanda, his confusion coming back in full force.

Amanda turned to him, intervening before he could wind himself up any further. She gathered up his hands and took them into her own. “I’m truly sorry, my little Sparrow, but I promise you I had no idea that your brother was alive. I would never have kept such a thing from you. I thought that the Spire had given me the ability to see all, but I know now that it only shows me that which I know to look for. I will not be making that mistake again.” She brought his hands to her lips and kissed them once, gently.

Connor looked to Nines. His expression remained wary for a few moments, then shifted to hope, and finally relief. Tears started pooling in his eyes again, and he pulled Amanda into a hug, hiding them in her shoulder. She was not a short woman, but his huge form dwarfed her slender build. She ran soothing hands down his back as his sobs hitched, murmuring soft reassurances.

Hank had been not-so-subtly shooting them worried glances this entire time, off where he was entertaining Sumo and Cole. Connor figured things had cooled down enough now, and caught Hank’s eye so he could motion them back towards the group. Hank and co. were back at Connor’s side in moments. Connor took Hank’s hand in his, offering a reassuring smile, and hoisted Cole onto his hip with the other, kissing him messily on the forehead. Cole squealed and squirmed, but held onto Connor all the tighter, and Connor smiled.

He caught movement in the corner of his eye, and turned to see that Amanda and Nines were finally separating. The second he was back within reach, Gavin pulled himself into Nines’s side. Nines hardly seemed to mind, and curled a strong arm around Gavin’s waist. Beside them, Amanda positioned herself to better address the group.

“Well then,” she said, her tone authoritative but kind. “We all have a lot to talk about. I don’t suppose there’s anywhere we might continue this discussion more at length?”

Connor just about tripped over himself in his haste to lead them all across the square to his family's home.

* * *

They managed to get everyone situated at the Anderson household. Cole talked animatedly with Gavin in the corner of the living room, the two of them sat on the floor and gesturing wildly at whatever tale Gavin was spinning, Sumo plopped down on the rug beside them. At the kitchen table, Nines and Connor sat side by side, shoulders touching, Hank was at the end on Connor’s other side, and Amanda sat across from the both of them, delicately sipping a cup of tea.

The afternoon had long since bled away, filled with the stories of Nines’s upbringing and experiences, of Connor’s life in Bowerstone. It had taken them hours, but they’d finally gotten through it all; Nines’s recovery, his deeds as a Hero, his time in the Spire, his triumphant return--and, in turn, Connor’s recovery, his apprenticeship to a fascinating trade, his marriage, his son, his peaceful life.

With everything said, they sat for long moments in comfortable silence.

“So,” Amanda spoke up suddenly, “Connor. Have you been trained in the art of Will?”

Over the course of the evening, the kitchen table gained a few scorch marks, but the rest of the house remained standing.

**Author's Note:**

> Never fear! There are several more installments to come. Next up: everyone spends some more time together, Connor reveals where Sumo's name comes from, and Connor masters the art of Will.


End file.
